


The D.C. Backroom Deal

by septima_sum



Series: Septima's Steter Alternative Universes [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angry Sex, Boss/Employee Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a regular prostitute with moderate life goals – until his current client makes him an offer he can’t refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The D.C. Backroom Deal

**Author's Note:**

> This has no redeeming qualities or educational value. 
> 
> Also, porn.
> 
> _This fic is intended for the private enjoyment of the reader. I do not give permission to share this work (either fully or in excerpts) on third-party websites._

  
  
  


Stiles quickly learned that politics and prostitution were not only the two biggest business sectors in Washington D.C., but also often intertwined to an unhealthy degree.

The guy that was sent to his hotel room that evening was definitively involved in politics; a second-row kind of guy, or a lobbyist. Stiles knew all the major players. His face wasn’t familiar, but he was well-dressed and had an attitude that spoke volumes. Stiles had no doubt that he got things moving behind the scenes, through legal measures or otherwise. 

He guessed that the client was in his late thirties or early forties and a shifter of some kind. His movements were graceful, sure-footed and economic; there was something faintly predatory about him and the way he observed Stiles. He fucked Stiles hard, as if he sensed how much he craved it that night. And sure enough, Stiles _loved_ it. The client nuzzled his neck, trying to drink in his scent, and probably got off more on the scent of his arousal than on the actual fucking. 

Stiles felt thoroughly and blissfully fucked out by the end of their encounter.

Money well earned, he switched the TV on and aimlessly zapped through the channels. He stopped as he stumbled upon an interview with one of the Werewolf League’s rising stars, Derek Hale. A senatorial candidate. The werewolf was extremely good-looking, but unfortunately also extremely boring. He was currently trying to explain the need for educational reforms in long-winded sentences that made Stiles lose track after a few seconds. 

“What a fucking dweeb,” Stiles murmured.

His client, busy with putting his pants back on, stilled. He glanced towards the screen. “Why is he a dweeb?”

“His campaign is run by incompetent idiots? It’s like watching a car crash in slow-mo.”

“What?”

“Come on. Looking like _that_ , with a biography like his, can you please tell me why he’s eight points behind Evans?”

“Evans is a veteran. He has big sponsors and has made a name for himself over and over. It also helps that he has a fortune and is perceived as business-friendly. Hale is just starting out.”

“If he starts out like that, he’ll collapse before he even reaches the finish line. His speeches should be patented as sleep medication. I mean, seriously? He is so unaggressive it _hurts_. Completely lackluster. There are potted house plants with more personality. And the worst part is that he has potential! If you prep him right and give him the proper lines, he’s a good candidate.”

The client stared at him. He appeared to be rendered speechless, and Stiles got the feeling that didn't happen too often. 

He shrugged and dropped his gaze, starting to feel defensive. Couldn't blame a guy for speaking his mind now and then.

“Aggressiveness isn’t always a virtue," his client said at last. "He could alienate lots of voters by being too brash, too brusque. And he has to attain a reliable network of allies before he can take the offensive.”

“But is he making allies, though?”

“I’m sure of it.” 

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look as if he’s really tapping his full potential. He’s too conservative for the werewolves and too liberal for the humans. He wants to play it safe, but let’s be honest, that won’t earn you anyone’s loyalty.”

The client furrowed his brows. “It has been demonstrated – again and again – that aggressively going for the Shifter’s Rights angle will isolate a candidate in the long run. He would inevitably be seen as anti-human.”

“Yeah, but I think it’s more problematic that he isn’t seen as pro-shifter. He is alienating his core demographic. And that’s just…unbelievably stupid. He has to convince them that he has their backs, that he isn’t just another spineless puppet that will do everything the humans bid him to.”

They watched the interview for a few more moments, Derek Hale droning on and on about the intricacies of the educational system. He appeared to be at some kind of charity banquet. Stiles stilled as he saw someone in the back of the scene, talking to another reporter – and what the hell? The guy looked like his current client, down to a T. 

Oh fuck. 

Definitively the same person.

“Awkward,” the guy murmured. He smirked at Stiles. “Yes, that would be me.”

“You work for his campaign?”

That triggered a wide grin. “I’m the campaign manager, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh.” Stiles _blushed_ , and nowadays that didn't happen on many occasions. “Just so you’re aware, you’re running the campaign into the ground.”

The client snorted derisively and looked surprisingly attractive while doing so. Stiles _loved_ it when men could wear condescension well, like a suit tailored of an expensive fabric.

“Well, I think I have a _bit_ more experience in these matters than you do.”

Stiles shrugged. “Of course. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid, though.”

The client looked at him for a long moment. Something inscrutable glittered in the depths of his eyes. “No. It doesn’t.”

He sat down at the edge of the bed, still shirtless and his pants unzipped. Stiles shot him a wary look. “How would you like working for Derek Hale’s campaign?”

_“What?”_

“Come work for me. I think you have some interesting ideas – even if they are completely off base – and you’re not afraid to voice them. I need that. I need a fresh, sharp mind. Someone different.”

“I’m a hooker," Stiles reminded his client crudely, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. 

“You could be a hooker _and_ my personal assistant. If you do well, you’ll get promoted. Soon enough you could be a political consultant.”

“You are _mad_.” Stiles smiled slowly. “But maybe you’re not losing after all. There’s something to be said about insanity.”

The client gave him a delighted smile. “Glad to hear that. I’m Peter Hale, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced yet.”

“Stiles Stilinski. Are you related to the guy?”

“He’s my nephew.”

 _Huh_. “So what would I do if I were part of your campaign team?”

“You would help to plan and organize my schedule, first and foremost. Once you’ve learned the ropes, you could also help out in several campaign groups. The general strategy is established on the most executive level, obviously, but we also have a subgroup dedicated to fundraising, the PR team that shapes the media strategy – our communication team – a research group that analyzes how much we appeal to our target demographics...there’s no shortage of work, believe me.”

“So I wouldn’t be required to do any sexual acts?”

Hale quirked an eyebrow. “Well, it _would_ be nice if you could blow me under the desk when I’ve had a rough day.”

Stiles gave him an unimpressed look. “Personal assistant, huh?”

“Don’t worry. I require sexual services of all my assistants.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I don’t even think you’re joking, you pervert.”

“So, you agree? You’ll give it a try?”

Stiles bit his lip. He was strangely sure about this, as weird as the offer was. “I agree. Deal.”

They shook hands. 

Stiles was pretty certain that he had just sold his soul to the devil.  
  
  


*

 

He hadn’t, actually.

That came a few days later when he signed an employment contract (and a confidentiality agreement that surely even a Scientology lawyer would find over the top).

Peter was a bastard. A bastard with questionable morals and a penchant for watertight agreements.

But Stiles had known that the moment he had laid eyes on him.  
  
  


*

 

Stiles quit working at the agency, though not without some trepidation. His new job meant that he had to get into a suit each morning instead of relieving men of their suits at all hours of the night. For once, he woke up on the right side of the sunrise and was lost in the bustling stream of commuters. It was an entirely different side of the city; the glass and bright lights and stale air of the office rooms, the smoking breaks that were spent gossiping about colleagues or discussing TV episodes, the endless rotation of people who wanted Derek Hale to represent their interests, sporting their big wide fake smiles and gripping Stiles’ hand in crushing handshakes.

There were dozens of other campaigners that worked for Derek Hale, most of them consultants that were hired for the term of the election run. Stiles could always tell who had been hand-picked by Peter, because even the overly polished ones (who prided themselves on degrees and titles and old money) had a predator-like quality and gave off the vibe that you didn’t want to cross them on any day. 

Everything went well, though. Stiles wasn’t easily intimidated. The last years had taught him that appearances didn’t matter and that deference was wasted. He could do this job, and do it well. His mind had always been quick (sometimes _too_ quick) and for once it was put to good use. Reading people was something of a specialty of him anyway. 

There was a rather obvious joke about a prostitute fitting well into the Capitol Hill crowd, but whatever. Screw it.  
  
  


*

 

The funniest part of his new job?

Recognizing someone from his old job.

Stiles enjoyed those awkward moments tremendously. It was pure comedy to watch someone suave and silver-tongued suddenly blush and stammer; watch a poor guy try to avoid looking in his direction, the eyes inevitably drawn to his mouth and then darting away as if they’d been burned.  
  
  


*

 

Peter was fuming almost to the point of steam erupting from his ears. “What the fuck does Harvey think he’s doing, talking to the press like that? Does he know who the fuck is sponsoring this campaign? That witless imbecile! I’m going to rip his useless head off and use his throat as a vase!”

He ranted for a couple of minutes and then sent everyone away, scattering to fix this mess. Everyone but Stiles, that was. Peter kicked the door to his soundproofed office closed and barked at Stiles, “Get on your knees. NOW.”

Stiles gave him a mocking little salute and did as he was told.

Peter sat down on his swivel chair and unzipped his pants, unceremoniously freeing his dick. “You know what to do. Get to work.”

And Stiles did. Of course he did.

He lost no time engulfing Peter’s cock in the warm, velvet softness of his mouth. Peter’s cock was fantastic, the stuff of dirty dreams: long, thick, heavy. Generously coated in spit, the length slid in and out of his mouth with ease, producing perverse little slurping sounds at each turn. Peter followed the movements of his bobbing head with intrigue, and Stiles grew hard in his own pants under the scrutiny, sucking on Peter’s delicious length as if his very life depended on it.

“Fuck, you look so good with a cock in your mouth. _Perfect_.”

Stiles grinned involuntarily – or tried to, at least, a trail of saliva dripping down his chin as a result. He moved to wipe it off, but a hand on his wrist stilled him. “I like you getting dirty,” Peter murmured. “I like seeing you get wrecked, little slut...”

Stiles rolled his eyes and hoped Peter didn’t notice _how much_ he got off on dirty talk. He nibbled on the head of Peter’s cock and then switched between fervent sucking and some feather-light, teasing touches that he knew from experience drove anyone insane. 

“Fuck... _stop._ ” Peter stilled him after some minutes, just as Stiles was rewarded with the salty taste of precome. “I’m going to fuck your pretty mouth and you’ll swallow my come as if you’re dying of thirst. Understood?”

“Do what you want,” Stiles began to say, but Peter had already started to nudge his dick past Stiles’ lips and it came out more like, “Do what you-hmmfff!”

Getting his face fucked took some getting used to. Stiles had experience, though, and knew how to move into the thrusts even with the limited maneuverability he was given, knew how to use his tongue to his advantage. Peter’s head rested against the back of the chair and his eyes were closed; his fingers were buried in Stiles’ hair, gripping him hard. He fucked Stiles’ face so roughly that Stiles felt tears prickling in the corner of his eyes, welling up and trickling over his cheeks, though that had nothing to do with emotional distress. His gag reflex was close to being triggered a few times. 

“Good boy,” Peter sighed when he opened his eyes again. They were nearly blown black. “Such a _good boy_. I’m – ah, _fuck_. Close. Think you can deep-throat me?”

Stiles nodded eagerly, color high in his cheeks, and gripped Peter’s erection at the base. He repositioned himself so that the angle was more favorable and guided Peter’s cock into his mouth, inch for inch, until the whole – not inconsiderable – length was fully engulfed and the tip nestled against the back of his throat. He looked up expectantly, proud of his accomplishment. It didn’t take a second longer for Peter to come. He spilled himself down the passage with a curse and a bruising grip on Stiles’ skull. Stiles swallowed the hot load enthusiastically, his throat contracting and working; he sucked until he’d gotten every last drop.

When he finally withdrew, he was breathing heavily. There were tracks of dried tears on his cheeks and his chin glistened with spit. He knew his face and throat were flushed – fuck if he didn’t feel as if he was burning up – and his pants were tented where his own erection was desperately begging for attention. _Absolutely wrecked._

Peter regarded him with affection, though, raking his fingers through Stiles’ disheveled hair. “You did a great job. You’re fantastic at deep-throating! I wonder why people don’t put that in their CV. It would greatly simplify the selection process.”

Stiles snorted and began to free his aching erection, lying down on his back to stroke himself to his climax. He came over his wrinkled shirt in thick spurts, staining the fabric and not caring one iota.  
  
  


*

 

Stiles frowned as he saw who had just entered the restaurant. _Hello there, old acquaintance._

Following his gaze, Peter's expression darkened. “That’s Keith McKelvey, one of the most radical anti-werewolf campaigners. His hate knows no bounds. That asshole constantly compares us to rabid dogs.”

Stiles struggled to subdue some honest-to-god _giggles_. “He’s into puppy play,” he whispered into Peter’s ear. “He likes to be put on a leash and be told he was a bad, bad doggy. If you have some dog treats? He goes crazy for ‘em. He _pants_. And he loves to rut against your knee until he comes.”

Peter’s eyes lit up in a way that could only be described as unholy glee. “I think I need to make a call. Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”  
  
  


*

 

“If I’m right and Smith is swayed by that orphanage sob story, I’ll get to finger you over your desk,” Stiles murmured, his eyes half-lidded.

Peter snorted. “You’re not. _I’m_ always right.”

“Then there’s no risk in agreeing.”

“Fine. But after we’ve cleared that I’m right, I’m going to fuck you over my desk while your hands are tied behind your back.” Peter pondered something for a moment. “With _your_ tie. And with _my_ tie gagging your mouth.”

Stiles grinned. “Deal.”

Peter wasn’t right. 

It was hilarious to watch his expression sour, though Stiles was oddly touched to detect something else beneath the unfiltered indignation (something that looked suspiciously like eagerness).

Stiles didn’t think he had ever enjoyed anything as much as bending Peter over his own desk and slowly unpeeling his ass from his pants and underwear. Peter yelped as he mouthed a bite into one cheek.

“Lube?”

“Top drawer.”

“You’re such a slut,” Stiles stated with dry amusment. “But to be honest, that’s probably your most redeeming quality.”

Peter snorted but otherwise refrained from commenting.

“Spread your legs.”

Peter stepped out of his pants and did just that, bracing himself on the edge of the desk for good measure (and fuck if that display of obedience didn’t do _things_ to Stiles). 

“Good boy,” Stiles praised. He squeezed Peter’s ass with both hands for a moment, sighing contently. “I’m going to have so much fun…and you as well, of course. I think I'm going to ruin you.”

  
  
  


*

 

“Andrew, seriously?” Stiles objected. He rubbed his tired eyes. “We have to get Amanda and the SAoA on board, or else they’ll turn on us. Derek can’t afford that. We have to get their input.”

“Oh shut up, we don’t,” Andrew spit out. It had been a long day and Andrew, perfect Andrew, with his old money and his brand-new Ivy degree, seemed on the brink of throwing a fit. One of the veins on his forehead pulsed visibly. “What the fuck do you know? You’re just Peter’s personal cocksucker!” Andrew released an ugly laugh. “A cum dump with delusions of grandeur.”

Stiles was momentarily rendered speechless. The insults stung more than he could have foreseen. He had worked alongside the other campaigners for months now, often until deep in the night, wading through graphs and numbers and twitter trends until the first one would cave in and open some bottles of beer or order pizza. 

Andrew seemed to understand that he had struck a nerve. “Nothing to say to that, huh? You’re a little bitch. That’s _all_ you’re good for, Stilinski. Being a squealing little bitch. Spreading your legs and taking some hard werewolf cock up your ass. So unless you’re offering your little asshole for a brutal pounding, you can shut the fuck up and let the real consultants handle this issue, how about that?”

There was dead silence in the office.

The three other campaigners observed the exchange with big eyes, frozen in place by Andrew’s outburst.

Stiles struggled to subdue the hot flush of humiliation he felt creeping up his throat, reddening his cheeks. The worst part was that something in him wanted to agree. _You’re nothing but a little whore. A whore with delusions. He was right about that._

“Andrew, you’re fired.”

Peter was in the doorway. No one had noticed him entering the office, but there he was, his eyes blazing electric blue.

Andrew’s head whipped around. “What? You can’t fucking fire me! Not because of him! I’m a _Stratford!”_

“You’re an unemployed idiot as of this moment!” Peter bared his teeth, the fangs dropped in all of their grisly glory. “And if you keep talking, I’ll rip your throat out. Stiles has neutralized Santiago, has won over our second-biggest sponsor, and has crucially helped to shape Derek’s social media campaign, and all that while you sat on your ass and mentally undressed the interns. You’re the product of centuries of inbreeding and god be damned if you don’t look and act like it. You’re expendable. Stiles isn’t. So pack your fucking bags and _go_.”

Andrew let out a violent string of curses, while everyone else in the office pretended not to stare at the unfolding spectacle.

Stiles gave Peter a grateful look, still somewhat shaken. 

Later that night, Egyptian cotton sheets pooled around their calves, Peter cupped Stiles’ face in his hands and whispered, “Don’t let anyone ever treat you that way.”

“I usually don’t…you know me. I’m pretty outspoken.” Stiles looked away. His earlier reservation still didn’t make sense to him and he found that honestly unsettling. “I was just caught off-guard for a moment.”

“There is nothing that Stratford or other Ivy League types have on you.” A finger under his chin turned Stiles’ head so that he couldn’t avoid Peter any longer. His gaze was intense, the blue of his irises almost unnaturally bright. “I looked up your high school record – you had a GPA of 4.0 and a full scholarship to UCLA. You’re smart, Stiles. Really smart. You know that. You have everything it takes to succeed, including the most essential requirement.”

“No morals?”

“A killer instinct.”

Peter's lips pressed against his. Stiles smiled into a surprisingly tender kiss; a slow, languid dance that didn’t need to lead anywhere. An end in itself. 

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he said after a while, when he could breathe regularly again and his lips tingled faintly, no doubt kissed an appealing shade of pink by now. “You know I’m going to take over your job one day, right?”

Peter grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

“Hostile takeovers aren’t supposed to work like that," Stiles said with a pout. "You’ll spoil my fun.”  
  
  


*

 

They won.

(Of course they did).

Stiles was happy, and not only because that meant he’d done his job well. He was actually happy for Derek, too. He’d come to appreciate the werewolf over the course of the campaign. In some regards, he was the polar opposite of Peter. His heart was in the right place. He was his own worst enemy. He was a goody two-shoes and about as dangerous as a toothless kitten. When the results had come in, he had looked like a surprised beauty contest winner and beamed a stunning 100 Watt smile. With the right team behind him, he would be good for werewolves, good for shifters.

Peter and Stiles found themselves on the balcony of a hotel room at 3 am, watching the city underneath them and drinking champagne. They were stupidly drunk and it didn’t take much to convince Stiles to let himself be fucked from behind, feet kicked apart, hands braced on the railing of the balcony. They still had some of that bothersome confetti in their hair and it was a nice, warm evening, and what better way to spend it than to fuck on the 8th floor and look down on the lights of Washington D.C.?

They had drunk too much alcohol, really, to have establish anything but a lazy and slow rhythm, but Stiles enjoyed it all the same, arching into the thrusts, enjoying the way his body met Peter’s, the way Peter filled him. There were little bursts of pleasure all along his spine, especially when Peter mouthed at his neck and play-bit his shoulder. It seemed to go on forever, and Stiles wanted it to.

But then Peter’s thrust grew more erratic and impatient until he buried himself in Stiles with a hard shove and came in an onslaught of miniscule thrusts. He sighed against the shell of Stiles’ ear, sagging against his back. Stiles jerked himself off to the feeling of being full, heavenly, unbearably so; when he came, his hole twitched and flexed around Peter’s still hard cock. 

There was nothing more to be done or said, but they still lingered in the moment, in each other’s embrace. Peter slid his arms around Stiles’ waist and hooked his chin over Stiles’ shoulder. A sheet of paper wouldn’t have fit between them. The wind occasionally carried the sound of cars and party-goers to them, but everything felt far away. They might as well have been on a different planet.

When Peter finally withdrew his cock with a wet, slick sound, Stiles couldn’t help grimacing. A few trails of come slowly trickled out of his asshole and down his bared thighs. A part of him got off on the feeling, though. He felt dirty, with his throbbing, well-fucked, come-leaking asshole and pants pooled around his feet, but half a year ago he would never have imagined being in this spot and feeling as if he’d just conquered the city. There was a vicious, primal triumph in that. 

Naturally, there was a downside to political wins, though, and with the orgasm fading from his system Stiles realized with startling clarity that the road was at an end now. 

And where exactly did that leave him?

“Something bothering you?” Peter mumbled against is neck.

“I was just wondering if I’m still your...well." Stiles smiled in a lopsided, somewhat unamused fashion, "...your personal whore.”

Peter released a laugh. “Everyone is a whore in this town, Stiles. But no, you’re not my personal whore anymore.” He was quiet for a few heartbeats. “Or if you are, I’m yours, too.”

“That’s so sweet,” Stiles snorted (he wanted to, at least; he harbored the suspicion it came out more affectionate than sarcastic). “I guess my days of turning tricks are finally over.”

Peter nipped at his neck. “Looks like it. I took you to a family dinner, remember? I never would have taken a whore. There’s not enough money in the world to pay someone to endure that.”

Stiles chuckled. He felt silly and elated and utterly, unabashedly happy. “No, I suppose not. You have one weird family.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome. 
> 
> Man, the amount of hand-waving in this story…let’s just pretend a fixed proportion of the Senate is filled with non-human senators. And it goes without saying that Peter’s behavior would never fly in a real campaign. Or anywhere else, really. ;-)
> 
> Shameless advertising: septima-sum.tumblr.com


End file.
